


Logan's Sky

by TheMysticWolf36



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Constellations, Fireflies, Gen, Imagination, No Dialogue, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMysticWolf36/pseuds/TheMysticWolf36
Summary: Logan has constellations in his room—a sort of planetarium of his own design that shines perpetually on his ceiling. Logan loves his sky. But he is also constantly reminded that it doesn't look like a /real/ sky, no matter how hard he tries.Roman gives him a hand.





	Logan's Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this lil ficlet when I saw this drawing by lestroodledoodles on tumblr: https://lestroodledoodles.tumblr.com/post/182263880749/fireflies-by-owl-city-has-big-uwu-energy-and-soft 
> 
> Be sure to check it out, it's pretty as heck !!

Logan has constellations in his room. When Thomas was young they consisted of glow-in-the-dark stars that Logan stuck on the ceiling as accurately as he could. With a stepstool, a star chart, and Patton's help, it actually didn't look half-bad. Now that he's older, though, he has no ceiling, because he looks up at the sky itself—something like a planetarium, which he cobbled together. In the day, bursts of white on a canvas of blue; at night, an array of twinkling lights, hundreds of trillions of miles away, and he's never felt closer to them. Thousands of tiny suns, just bright enough to see by. They're beautiful.

It is, perhaps (though he would never admit it outright), inspired by the Great Hall of Hogwarts, reflecting the world around it, but unlike the fictional ceiling, it changes at Logan's discretion. When he chooses, night turns to day and day to night, as slowly or as quickly as he likes. It's a metaphor, of course, Logan is not so presumptuous as to pretend he can control the hours for his own aesthetic purposes.

He likens it to a lamp. A lamp that, at night, when his mind continues to run on unbidden with questions and plans and ideas, he'll scan for unique sequences, note the movement of astral bodies, trace well-charted patterns he's had memorized since the time he knew what they were. Patterns from which stories were told, stories which changed and reshaped themselves for those who told them, passing through history from culture to culture, era to era, until they eventually came to Thomas, to him.

Logan loves his sky.

Andromeda winks down at him from her place among her fellows, and Logan feels a sense of peace. But also, for reasons he cannot explain, a sense of longing.

That's not entirely true, he admits to himself. His sky is beautiful, majestic, proportional. And also entirely too close. While he does preside over all of the knowledge in Thomas' head, there are limits to his ability. He cannot simply create anything, and while he can superimpose images on whatever he likes in his room, he cannot change his ceiling's depth. His sky, while beautiful, is not wholly accurate, not quite real, no matter how he tries to pretend.

It makes him almost sad when he recognizes it.

Almost, because he is Logic and he knows better.

While he might wish to go out into the night and stargaze, Thomas' own interest is too passing and telescopes too expensive to consider. While to Logan the idea of sitting out in the grass and just _looking_ up at the sky sounds more than ideal, he knows that it would never happen. Thomas is a creature of comfort and habit, and the others' inevitable boredom and concern over things in the night (ranging from insects to serial killers—perhaps _Making a Murderer_ was not the best show for them to have watched) would drag them back inside before Logan's desires were remotely met. Balance between them is key, and fortunately, Logan knows how to compromise.

But his longing doesn't go away. It doesn't infringe on his daily life, isn't any kind of a struggle, but he feels it nonetheless. While he is by no means an expert on emotions, he knows enough that the only way to sate this feeling is to fulfill it. He just needs to figure out how.

Naturally, he goes to Roman.

Patton and Virgil are good listeners and could offer meaningful solutions, but he doesn't need to vent or express his emotions. And for better or for worse, Roman understands him in a way that is unique. Brash and argumentative as he is, above all Roman is kind. His brand of kindness is what Logan needs.

Roman understands the power that he has. Not the literal power of conjuration or his reign over Thomas' creative mind, but figurative power, the privilege Imagination offers him. The importance his room—or more precisely the space past his intricately carved French doors—carries for all of them. And Roman is kind. That is what Logan reminds himself when he asks.

Roman smiles, ever so soft, and he nods his head, leading Logan through the void of a doorframe, and his world changes.

They're standing in a field, much like the ones Thomas visits in the real world when looking for inspiration, only the ground is more plush than any actual field could be, and the grass and low hills going on for what seems like forever (though really extending just past his vision, Logan is sure).

The sky above them is perfectly blank. No moon, no stars, and yet they can see, as though the world is still lit. His confusion must show, because Roman seems to take pity on him. Roman tells him to close his eyes, to take a deep breath, and to picture the night sky as he imagines it, as he wants it. Logan trusts him and does as he says, trying, truly trying to imagine the sky he has longed for, unimpeded by light pollution, high enough to stretch across the horizon, reaching out into the depths of space far beyond human comprehension, no matter how they try.

Roman's voice is a whisper when he tells him to open his eyes. Logan does, and he is blinded. He blinks, once, twice, and looks up.

It's far more beautiful than he could have pictured it. Hundreds of thousands of sparkling lights, looking down at him, and so much brighter than he had dreamed. The moon is there too, waxing as it should be at this point in its calendar, joining its celestial companions.

Roman squeezes his shoulder and says something about time and enjoying himself, and he walks away. Logan is transfixed. Distantly he hears the doors click shut, and he is aware that he is alone. Just he and his stars.

Eventually Logan pulls his eyes away long enough to sit down, and eventually lie back, just looking up at the majesty before him.

Is this what the Greeks saw? The Egyptians? The Babylonians? In their time, when the lamps and torches and hearths had been put out, and they were left with the silent world, did they see this same sky? Crafting tales to explain the unexplainable, with an ever-present template shining above them, waiting to be explained? Did they sit together, parents and children, siblings and friends, old and young, tracing the world around them for meaning. finding comfort in their explanations, in their company?

Logan's own company is perfect. Andromeda blinks down again, along with Calliope and Lyra, Polaris and Rigel, Venus and Mars—he's been finding them by memory for so long that he needs merely scan the expanse above him, greets them like old friends.

It's all too easy to get caught up in it all, and he closes his eyes, wondering if this is bliss.

Something shines above his face; he sees its dancing orange glow past his closed eyelids, and Logan's brows furrow. He opens his eyes.

A soft, surprised exhalation leaves Logan's lips, and he's left staring once again. Small, flying insects surround him, blinking intermittently, seemingly as numerous as the stars.

Logan is laid among the fireflies, nature's own fairy lights. He holds up a hand without thinking, and one of the little creatures lights on his fingertips, scuttling around and blinking, once, twice, before flying off again.

His hand flops back on the too-soft-to-be-real grass, and unbidden, Logan finds himself laughing. Soft chuckles and then louder, and he closes his eyes again. He was mistaken before. This must be bliss.

The insects are Roman's doing, he's sure, but Logan finds that he doesn't care. He is stretched out beneath a canvas of light while living stars surround him, searching for imaginary mates with their glowing abdomens, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale. For a moment he wonders if it would truly look like this if in the real world, but once more, he’s surprised to find that he doesn't care. He is content with this. He doesn't use the word lightly, but Logan truly counts this as a magical experience.

He grins as another firefly rests on his wrist, and others dart between the constellations above, and Logan imagines those stories, passed down so far through time, changing with the presence of a single, small bug.

Logan loves his sky.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in anything else that I've written, you can find me on tumblr!
> 
> https://shadowedlamplight.tumblr.com


End file.
